


Silver Kisses

by Nemoinis



Category: due South
Genre: Bloodplay, Kink, M/M, POV First Person, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:24:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemoinis/pseuds/Nemoinis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is the most beautiful creature.   All clean and pink skin, except for the heavy lines upon his bicep.  I have often wondered who made those tracks, who was the first to pierce his virgin skin and reveal the honesty underneath.  He told me once, after I spent hours tracing it with my fingertips, that the pain of it made it special.   Made it real.  And it's true.   Pain makes everything real.  Makes you brutally honest and subservient.  Pain is... </p><p>...Love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Moving everything to AO3. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos appreciated!

He is the most beautiful creature. All clean and pink skin, except for the heavy lines upon his bicep. I have often wondered who made those tracks, who was the first to pierce his virgin skin and reveal the honesty underneath. He told me once, after I spent hours tracing it with my fingertips, that the pain of it made it special. Made it real. And it's true. Pain makes everything real. Makes you brutally honest and subservient. Pain is... 

...Love. 

And that has always been the constant in my life. One lesson that I have learned over and over and over. Love hurts. And the deeper the love, the more intense the pain, the longer the ache, the bigger the scar. 

My mother's love is a faint hitch in the back of my chest, half-remembered but still there. Like a tiny sliver that has worked its way under your skin, close enough to feel when you press upon it, but too deep to dig out, no matter how sharp the blade. 

Dad, well, he's a bit closer to the surface, like a low-grade infection that heats your skin, takes your strength bit by bit. Fever bright sometimes, but in the end can be ignored, pushed aside and buried deep, just like the splinter. 

Victoria knew about love. She would have given me everything, ripping my soul apart and hooking those long beautiful nails into my flesh, and I think that kind of love could have sustained me for years. Built me up - wall-by-wall and torn me down again brick by brick, over and over. 

But Ray Vecchio came and introduced me to a new kind of love - the kind that burns its way under your flesh, twists your spine until all that keeps you alive is the pain. Yet, is so fleetingly quick that it's like a brush fire; hot and fast, leaving nothing in its wake, dying when it can no longer feed itself. When your lover leaves and you're alone. 

If you ask who loved me more, my parents are an insignificant itch next to burn of Victoria, but even that heat has lessoned. Deep in the night, however, my body still aches from Ray's affection. 

And now, here I am. Inflicting my own love. 

I run the cold blade over his nipple, delighted with the slow puckering response, his instinctive breath as he tries to move away. I've always been stronger and hold him so easily. I trace his belly with my free hand; sweet little touches across the cradle of his hips, reading the tiny invisible network of scars, a spider web of possession. If I look closely I could see the older, whiter marks, but they blend so perfectly into him that I can only feel them if I stroke him lightly. Like I am now. 

There's the first one, beneath his navel. It's slightly crooked, my own nervousness showing, and is longer than the others. He cried that night until he was ill. Below that, shorter, straighter, my comfort when he couldn't let go of Stella. I know every line on his body and what it means, what it tells him. Each individual mark a moment of our lives. A map of sorts. 

Tonight, his eyes are red and swollen from crying. Botrelle. Franklin. Two silver kisses to give. I make the first cut, then another, watching the bright welling lines on his straining belly. Hot beneath my fingertips, salty slick on my tongue. I could drown in his sweet taste and I do, losing myself for endless moments. Only the impatient shifting of his hips against my chest moves me. 

I turn and fall beside him, letting my legs splay, watching the shiny brightness trade hands. It's quick, to sharp to hurt right away, but when his lips touch the lines, I shudder. He paints my inner thighs with his tongue, until my cock is aching, and the slow rasp of his cheek over the marks is like sandpaper. 

I only have to say his name and he comes to me, laying in the cradle my body offers, our cocks touching his red belly, his hips rubbing my red inner thighs and we rock. 

He tastes of fragile things and I want to devour him bit-by-bit, sliver-by-sliver, one tiny bite at a time. I can feel in the tremors that rack his body, he wants to do the same to me. 

I hope it hurts.


End file.
